Rubber Ducks

My daughter, Olivia, is turning four this August. I look at her chocolate brown hair, her long dark lashes, her almond shaped eyes, her magnificent toothy smile and I wish I could freeze this moment forever.  She, like no other, has the power to move me and reach me in a place that seems infinite. I am blessed to be her mother. The responsibility is simultaneously beautiful and terrifying. She really is my heart walking around outside of my body. I have never felt so vulnerable.

Yesterday I heard her talking in the bathtub.  She was playing with her rubber ducks and wind-up swimmer.  She makes me laugh out loud.  But yesterday the baby duck killed the mommy duck and swam away to a far off land.  I had a fleeting moment of terror, of psychoanalyzing if she had some pent up anger towards me that was being expressed in play, and then I calmed my irrational fears. I’ve had to be really careful of this these past four years.  The worry for her.  The expectations I have of myself as her parent. I’ve jumped on the worry train far more often than I care to admit. I’m sure you’ve been there. I’ve got a first class ticket on that train and I’d be happy to trade it in for something more lucrative like a pair of new shoes.

We as parents do everything we can to create the ideal circumstances for our children.  The right neighborhood, the most reputable school, the least toxic hygiene products, the least toxic friends, and the scary thing is despite all of this planning and careful thought, our children are still left to navigate their way through an imperfect world.  As imperfect beings. With imperfect parents.  Despite our best intentions there is a gap and our children, like us, need to make sense of the imperfections and what they are going to do with them.

Maybe it’s a health problem, or a divorce, or unemployment, or a mental health problem, or financial difficulties, or a learning disability, or racism, or marital difficulties, or a death in the family, or a parent that is geographically distant due to employment.  We all have our cross to bear, and our instinct as parents is to pretend there are no crosses.   It’s our inclination, isn’t it?  Keeping up appearances.  Pretending everything is okay on the outside when we are kept awake at three a.m. wrestling with our realities.

As a parent, I’m convinced that one of the best things we can do for our children is to teach them about our humanity. Not in an over-sharing, skewed boundaries kind of way, but in acknowledging our mistakes when we’ve made them,  acknowledging our humanness, acknowledging our own need for growth, and acknowledging that we depend on something bigger than ourselves for guidance and direction.  My daughter knows that mommy is strong, that mommy has the answers, that mommy is the leader of this family.  But, I hope she also knows that the strength, the answers, and the leadership come from submitting to something, someone bigger than herself.

Trusting God with my family: The decisions, the joys, the struggles, and the day to day, is a learning curve.  It is a dance of intimacy and He’s been faithful. I’ve been human.  But He’s been faithful.  I’m not a perfect parent, and there are circumstances in our lives that I wish could be different.  I bring these imperfections and my desires and daily try to lay them at His feet. I hold onto his cloak like the woman who needed her disease healed (Luke Ch. 8) when things get overwhelming.  He keeps rescuing and redeeming me.  I am trusting Him a little bit more with every day.  We are cared for.

“Daughter”, he said to her, “your faith has made you well.  Go in peace.”  (Luke 8: 48)